saint, sinner, martyr
by bergamots
Summary: It is three in the morning and Roy has been staring at the marks and lines on her back for a long time.


_Have a little piece that's a little angsty, a little hurt-comfort and a little fluffy? I also found out a riza (риза) is a russian term describing the gilding that they give to the portraits of their icons, so there you go!_

 _There's no particular timeframe for this piece, but I'm thinking prolly after Hughes' death. Comments are always appreciated and encouraged!_

* * *

It is three in the morning and Roy has been staring at the marks and lines on her back for a long time. Only some parts are highlighted by the streetlight that leaks into his apartment - the rest of the room is a hazy dull orange that reminds him far too much of Ishval and old research papers. He doesn't need to strain his eyes to complete the sentences on her skin; finish the patterns that morph into mottled patches. He knows it all by heart – that the dip in her shoulder blades tells him the _exact_ equation for transmuting oxygen around him, and the flare of her hips will help him calculate the distance from where the snap of his fingers is natural to when he needs to _concentrate_. If he were blinded and could only rely on his touch on her back he would still wager he wouldn't get lost. Every muscle and piece of skin is known to him intimately.

The rest – the _dangerous_ rest, is partially hidden by the old shirt she sleeps in when she stays over. He thinks he had it during the academy – but it's not his shirt anymore, not really. It hasn't been his for a long time. She looks far better in it anyway.

Riza shifts a little in her sleep and the shirt hikes up along her waist even more. She is a beautiful person, he thinks, reaching out a hand and carefully tracing the latin that seeps into her rib cage. Far more than she gives herself credit for.

Far more than what her father ever saw her as.

Melancholic moods are not a common occurrence but Roy is exhausted and his nightmares have been particularly awful the last few days – so much so that Riza had invited herself over, armed with good takeout and worried eyes. He knows that they ought to be more careful but he is _tired_ and even though he's not sleeping now he feels better than if he were alone.

(Alone means having to address his demons on his own and he doesn't think he can right now – he's always been drowning in blood and marrow but this week it has been more than drowning; he has been _suffocating_ and the weight of his sins pools in his lungs and makes it hard to breathe freely).

She shifts again, curling further into the pillow she has wrapped herself around. She is a curious thing when sleeping – gone are the hard lines born by duty and rank – she is more fluid, lithe like a panther. His eyes follow the rise of her hips, interrupted only by the black fabric of her underwear. The street light falls across her legs in strips, emphasising the curves and lines of her muscles. She is like the old paintings where gold is used to accentuate what the artist has already created – improved in a way that no mere mortal could possibly hope to achieve.

" _Aurum regina_ ," he murmurs softly under his breath, as he watches the rise and fall of her chest. There is a lot he wishes he could say to her but deep down he knows she will not care. What's left unsaid is still understood, if never formally acknowledged. He can almost hear her scolding him in his head, her tone and cadences both familiar and comforting. _Sleep, Roy. Don't make my job harder than it already has to be._

"I can hear you talking from over here," she mumbles softly, stretching languidly and yawning as her joints pop. "What is it?"

He pulls his hand back from her back, where he had been rubbing over a part of her skin partially warped and stained. She makes a noise of disappointment.

"It's nothing," he replies lowly, watching as she rolls over in his bed to face him properly, still curled around the pillow. "Go back to sleep."

"I should be saying that to you," she grumbles, stifling a yawn into the pillow. "You need to sleep, or you'll be dead on your feet at work tomorrow." She lifts her head a little to look at the clock on his drawers and squints. " _Today,"_ she says reproachfully, dropping her head back onto the pillow with a _thump._

Roy nods, carefully tucking some of her hair behind her ear. "I know," he answers. "It'll be okay."

Riza huffs. "No it won't," she retorts, stifling another yawn. Sleep has crept back into her voice and he watches as her eyes flutter. She is softer in these forgotten hours, and he mourns for the opportunities he has taken from her consciously and unconsciously. She never deserved this, and he doesn't deserve her.

She shifts again and throws the pillow she was curled around somewhere into the dark corners of his room, instead resting her head on his chest and dragging her nails across his collarbone not unharshly; but enough to make to make him pause in his thinking. Riza doesn't speak again, but she knows she does not need to. Her legs tangle with his under the thin sheet, and he feels her grinning into his skin as her feet shift along his legs – she is _freezing_ and he bites his lip as he adjusts to the sensation.

"Perhaps you should start wearing socks," he says quietly, stroking her hair very carefully. She does not reply, instead opting stretch her neck to kiss the underside of his jaw softly.

It's quiet in his room as she dozes off again, her fingers resting on his sternum. He thinks he can almost feel her pulse through her fingertips.

* * *

 _aurum_ is latin for gold; _regina_ for queen.


End file.
